


Gone Hunting

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Guilt, Internal Conflict, M/M, Memories, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, chapter 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 05:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18243401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: Arthur ran off to go hunting thousand pound bears with Hosea. He jumped at the chance. Anything to get out of camp. Anything to avoid seeing John. But he can’t avoid him forever.Meanwhile, John’s about sick of being in camp himself. Sick of feeling useless and abandoned. But he’ll have to bring back something more substantial than a handful of owl feathers to feel useful. As for feeling abandoned, well, he’ll have to take that up with Arthur...somehow.Abigail can see the gap between them. She might be the only one who would take steps to close it. However, she can only do so much.





	1. A Perfectly Upstanding Name For a Horse

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t played the game or written in weeks. It’s been rather busy with work. The show must go on and all of that.
> 
> I marked this chapter as mature for some brief mentions of the sexual nature and some later sexual contact. Never can be too careful. No current sexual contact between the men just yet.
> 
> This installment will also have a focus in the relationship Arthur and John have with their horses. We all know how much they LOVE their horses. 
> 
> I’ve written in my own favorite ingame horse. He has been with me since the beginning, and he has gotten me through some rough/interesting situations...
> 
> Enjoy!

Like the stable master had said, there were plenty of fine horses. Most of them were tall, and strong-looking. Lean. Fast. Bursting with energy. 

But there was one that caught Arthur’s eye. 

A little morgan with a palomino coat flecked with mud. 

He was perhaps only fourteen hands high, at the very most fourteen and a quarter. His brown eyes were bright and intelligent. When Arthur approached the stall and held out a hand the horse paused a moment. Regarding Arthur, sizing him up. But then he was curiously snuffing at the proffered bruised knuckles.

And then Arthur was opening the stall and stepping in to run a hand up the white blaze on the small horse’s face. The large brown eyes closed for a peaceful moment and there was a soft nicker. Patting him down gently, Arthur inspected the horse’s flanks, and legs. There was good, lean muscle there. He knew right then, that the morgan was a horse that was easily underestimated.

“What’re you askin’ for this one?” Arthur found himself saying as he stood up, patting the horse’s neck.

“That one?” The stable master said, sounding a bit surprised. He came over and settled a hand on the stall gate. “I usually keep him around to rent.”

“And if someone was lookin’ to buy?”

The stable master’s eyebrows went up as he considered what Arthur had said. “Well, I’d say fifteen dollars.”

Without hesitation, Arthur nodded, “I can do fifteen.”

The stable master chuckled and scratched at his chin in disbelief, “Ya know, most folks overlook him. He’s been here a while. You sure you’re not lookin’ for something else?”

“Nah, I know a good horse when I see one,” Arthur drawled, taking the reins the stable master offered from the unruly shire he’d just sold him. The morgan waited patiently while the straps were adjusted to fit his smaller face. His ears turned to Arthur when he murmured, “Yer okay, boy.” 

“Well, he’s faster and stronger than he looks,” the stable master chuckled, patting the morgan’s flank as Arthur led him out of the stall. “He’ll make a good horse. Sorry to see him go.” He watched as Arthur carefully set his saddle over the horse’s back. Each tug on the straps was mindful, and the morgan was undisturbed by the adjustments. 

“Must admit, I found myself...somewhat concerned.”

Arthur paused and looked at the stable master who looked back at him knowingly. Just then, he remembered a man with a moustache like that in the crowd. The crowd that had gathered to watch the bar fight a day prior. It was hard to keep your head down when you’ve been thrown through a window and into the muddy street in the middle of town.

His jaw still smarted something fierce. 

_“Come here, Pretty Boy!”_

_“‘Pretty Boy?’ You gotta be kiddin’ me. ‘Pretty Boy?!’”_

Pretty meant weak. Pretty meant foolish. Pretty meant dandy. Pretty meant unmanly. Pretty meant queer. 

A familiar image of nearly shoulder-length dark hair splayed over a bedroll beneath him came unbidden into his mind. A jolt of pleasure. Frantic tugging. A low cry.

No. Hell no. Arthur certainly was not pretty, not in any way. _Shoulda killed that big bastard._ He dug some money out of his pocket and stiffly handed over fifteen dollars, not meeting the stable master’s eyes. 

“Alright, partner,” the man nodded, “You’ve got yourself a deal. And a fine new horse.” 

Arthur patted the morgan’s neck, “I hope so.” 

“I don’t sell anything other than good animals. You have my word on that.” 

Papers were provided, and Arthur even came away with a new grooming brush to boot. He led the new horse from the stables just as Hosea came over from the general store. He took one look at the small horse and smiled, “Well, now!”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head, “I’ll thank you not to insult my new friend here.” The morgan softly neighed and dipped his head, as if in greeting.

Hosea mounted up on his own horse who whinnied, ears turning forward. The old man still smiling, “Not bad, Arthur. You happy?” 

“I think there’s more to’im than meets the eye. So, we’ll see.” Arthur replied, mounting up.

It seemed that the morgan took a rider just fine. His gait was well-balanced. And he kept right up with Silver Dollar, no problem. Arthur couldn’t help but praise him. He wasn’t too keen on heading back up into the mountains, but at least he had a good horse to get him there. He and Hosea made some small talk as they rode. Mostly about the bear, and about the last time the old man had been to O’Creagh’s Run. Innocent enough. But eventually, Hosea touched on a sore subject. 

“So, how are things with you and John?” 

Arthur could almost hear the weak, quiet cries. The cries that called out his name. He remembered vividly the way John’s fat cock felt in his hands despite his own desperate attempts to clear his mind. And yet, he could also hear his father drunkenly growling out the word “queer” as he beat Arthur as a boy. 

“Fine,” He gritted out, hoping the old man would take a hint. But Hosea kept going. 

“Ain’t it about time you let it go now?” Hosea asked, looking at Arthur intently this time as they rode side by side. His eyes, full of wisdom and knowledge, always working things out, settled on the younger man. He was a conman. Always knew more than he let on with all of his talking. 

“It was a year, Hosea,” Arthur spat. His jaw ached from the fight as he gritted his teeth again. Betrayal, fresh and unforgotten, came back to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Time hadn’t cleansed it. “He ditched us for a goddamn year!” 

“I’ve spoken with him many times.” Hosea returned solemnly.

Arthur’s belly clenched uncomfortably and he suddenly felt sick. What had they spoken about exactly? 

“He knows he did wrong. He just wants to put it behind him.” 

Arthur somehow doubted that that was all that they had talked about. Or at least shared in some way. Hosea was too clever to let anything from Arthur or John, whom he had raised from boyhood, get past him. He knew. He had to know. He somehow knew everything else that went on in camp. How could he not know that...the two of them…

And the way Arthur hadn’t really felt like himself after John had disappeared. When the younger man hadn’t been seen in nearly a week, Arthur had gone out looking for him. What little John had owned was gone, but Arthur had been hoping...giving him the benefit of the doubt. But their last conversation hadn’t been pleasant. There were things he’d been scared of for himself, for John. 

But John had _left._

_Didn’t give him much reason to stay,_ he thought guiltily for a short moment before he ground his teeth and chased the thought away with self-piteous anger. 

“I’m sure he does.” Arthur ground out with what he hoped was a tone of finality. He decided that he’d punch John Marston right in the mouth the next time he saw him. “Runnin’ off on that kid is one thing, but there’s a _code_ , and he knows that.” 

He’d trusted John. Looked after him. Felt...whatever it was he’d felt about him. It was wrong. On so many levels. But that didn’t matter, Arthur could hide behind the gang, whether or not he realized it. John had left the _gang_. And rode back into camp after a year as if nothing had happened. People couldn’t just get away with that.

“He ain’t Trelawny. You and Dutch pretty much raised him.” He didn’t realize until right then, how much he needed someone to agree with him. Someone to take his side when it came to John. Someone who spoke sense. Someone who could chase away the voices of camp, when they’d pulled at him, begged him not to finish strangling the returned dark-haired fool to death.

“I know.” Came Hosea’s response. 

Arthur still felt sick. And his victory was short-lived when the old man added, “But it’s done now. Has been for a while.”

Arthur’s hackles raised as they rode. He felt cornered. He felt cowed. Hosea could always make him feel young and foolish somehow. And it really stung this time. 

But he couldn’t let this go. He couldn’t let the images of John clinging weakly to his coat before the train robbery in Colter linger in his head. Couldn’t let the sounds of John, abusing himself, calling softly out for Arthur in his pleasure take over his thoughts. Arthur had to win. Had to hurt him somehow. He had to be right. 

Because he couldn’t afford to be wrong. He just wasn’t strong enough to be. 

“No one else would have been welcomed back that easy after that long, and you know it!”

Vaguely, he could almost see the resigned way John’s eyes had begun to roll back into his head when he first came back. The way his hands had loosened their grip on Arthur’s wrists, letting himself be strangled long before the fight had left him. 

_“Stop! Get off of him!”_

_“Arthur!”_

_“Stop it! You’re gonna kill him!”_

Faintly, he could hear their cries. He could see the blood trickling from John’s nose, gathering in bruises beneath his skin. The shade of white and then blue that John had turned beneath his grasping hands. But he had stopped.

He’d stopped. He could pretend not to know why. But in reality, he knew he couldn’t do it. 

They rode together quietly after that. Hosea only spoke to point out landmarks and countryside that he remembered. As darkness began to fall, they set up camp near the road. Arthur hunted a rabbit, and Hosea cared for the horses. 

They didn’t talk much more that evening. They laid out in their bedrolls, and fell silent. Eventually, Hosea got to snoring. Arthur was still awake. The crackling warmth of the fire competed with the sounds of the night. There a very slight chill to the air that clung moistly to the grass. 

Sleepily, he stared up at the expanse of stars across the relatively clear skies. There were so many. More than he could ever hope to count. Arthur almost wished he could draw it. He had no idea where he would start if he ever did. He’d seen a few paintings in his life that had attempted to capture the night sky. Some were self-indulgent, and some were real pretty. 

He’d never painted before. He wondered what he’d do with all of that colour. With so many blues.

_“Whatcha lookin’ at me like that for?”_

_Dark brown eyes smiled back at him, “Dunno. Yer eyes...they’re just real blue. Like the sky.”_

_“...Shut up, John.”_

Frowning, he glanced across the fire at Hosea. The old man had his hat pulled low over his eyes as he snored, dead to the world. Arthur rolled onto his side and tucked an arm under his head. 

He hadn’t seen John for days. 

For the brief moments between sleep and awareness, when he felt most foolish, Arthur let himself think. Really think. 

He knew what was tucked into those soft brown eyes whenever they looked at him. He knew what the lingering touches meant. He remembered. He remembered the unsure, chapped lips against his. He remembered the long-fingered hands wrapping tentatively around his prick. He remembered hurting him...

He knew what John wanted. And Arthur did want...but he really shouldn’t. It wasn’t right. It was too dangerous. 

He felt guilty. Angry. Aroused. Afraid. Ashamed. 

A bit of water gathered at the lower corner of his eye and he roughly wiped it away. 

A soft nicker sounded. He looked over and saw the morgan had turned his head in Arthur’s direction. His ears were turned forward, and he nickered again. 

Sitting up, Arthur glanced around for signs of danger that the horse might have noticed. But the forest was quiet, the crickets chirped and the fire quietly danced and crackled. The morgan nickered again, dipping his head, and blinking slowly. 

Arthur pushed up from his bedroll. His muscles protested, tired from spending most of the day riding. Stepping carefully around Hosea, he went to the horses. Silver Dollar seemed asleep, breathing deeply and slowly. The morgan perked his ears toward Arthur, grunting quietly. 

He slid his hand gently up the white blaze on the horse’s face. The large brown eyes closed peacefully. Arthur took a deep breath and pressed his face into the morgan’s neck. Trying to figure out what he should do. 

Nickering softly, he felt the large nostrils snuffing at his side. Teeth very gently nibbled on the edge of the outlaw’s brown coat. 

Arthur heaved a cluttered sigh. His eyes felt wet. His chest felt heavy. His belly felt full of air despite having eaten a decent portion of rabbit. He tried to breathe deeply, stroking his new horse. He turned his head, and looked into a large brown eye. 

The gaze was kind. Patient. 

Arthur felt calm in his presence. He was a fine horse. A horse that would be a wonderful companion. He wondered for a moment how many folks had overlooked him because of his size. 

He’d need a name.

Arthur patted the strong, lean neck. “Harold,” he murmured, deciding, “Harold is a perfectly upstanding name for a horse.”


	2. Falling Over and Over Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The camp is dangerously low on food. Some are going hungry to be sure that others are fed. John has had enough of waiting around and decides to go on his own little hunt. It’s his first time riding alone since Colter. His injuries are nowhere near as much trouble as his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it’s time for some more conflict in John’s head! Angsty outlaws...
> 
> No real sexual content in this chapter. Maybe some fluff that I wasn’t expecting...I pulled out a trope. Oh my friends, I pulled out a trope real hard.

Hosea trotted back into camp in the morning, looking pale and tired. The old man had gone straight for some whiskey, detailing his and Arthur’s great hunt of the biggest bear he’d ever seen in his life. And of the very prompt way Hosea’s feet had carried him away from it. 

The others had laughed. 

But John didn’t. 

“So, you just left him alone?” John asked skeptically, throwing down a drying cloth. He’d been washing dishes. It wasn’t a chore that he relished, but Miss Grimshaw had made a comment. And the comment got under his skin. 

She’d mentioned how “good” it was that he was getting enough rest since coming to Horseshoe Overlook. After that, he’d grown even more agitated when Bill showed up in camp. His face was all bruised up and he was walking funny with two shot-up squirrels over his shoulder.

Apparently, him, Charles, Javier and Arthur had gotten into a huge bar fight at some point in the last day or two. John had felt very little amusement as Bill had regaled the tale to the women. A tale that included Arthur getting thrown clean through a goddamned window by a man twice his size.

It made John feel sick to his stomach. They were supposed to be keeping their heads down. Supposed to be staying safe, quietly making money. Not testing the structural integrity of some cattle town saloon.

_Never was good at keepin’ our heads down_ , John relented to himself. But his mood didn’t improve when Hosea returned to camp alone.

The old man shook his head, taking another pull from the bottle he’d been handed. “Arthur can take care of himself. We’ll be eating bear stew soon enough. Then again, it might take him a while to bring back all that meat. What with him ridin’ that tiny critter the stable master in Valentine thought to call a horse!” 

“He ridin’ a pony?” Tilly exclaimed, leading to more laughter.

Hosea shook his head again, chuckling, “No, no. I’m not being fair. The horse was a morgan.”

“A morgan for Morgan!” Bill guffawed.

There was laughter.

Waving a dismissive hand, Hosea took a long pull off the whiskey bottle, “Bit on the smaller side, but he kept right up with Silver Dollar. Did a whole lot less running than I did when that damn bear came up on us. Barely flinched when Arthur got off six shots too. I reckon they’ll be fine.” 

Pearson grunted, “I sure hope so. We’re real low on food. Bill brought back a couple of squirrels but they won’t last us.”

That was the last straw. John was hungry, everyone was hungry. Scoffing, he shook his head and limped off to his tent. He was feeling mean now. Hunger and soreness always put him in a bad mood. 

Inside his tent, he found his carbine repeater and checked the chamber. John wasn’t a great hunter, but he certainly was a pretty good shot. It was about time he explored the area a bit anyways. After slinging the weapon over his shoulder, he picked up his canteen and his coat. The flap to his tent fell down behind him as he moved towards the horses. 

It was a fine day for a hunt. Bit cold, but sunny enough for game to be on the move. He spotted Old Boy chewing hay, looking bored. He gave a whistle. The horse’s ears perked up and he turned his head. Hay spilled from his big mouth as he ate, and a short whinny trilled from his throat. 

“Hey there, friend,” John smiled, petting a hand down Old Boy’s face.

He heard footsteps behind him. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” came a quiet, insistent voice. Abigail.

John sighed and went over to pick up his saddle. Old Boy was practically dancing on his feet with excitement. “M’goin’ huntin’.” He grunted, slinging the saddle over his horse’s back.

“You’re barely walking!”

John shook his head, going about cinching up the straps, “Abigail, if I stay in this camp one more minute, I’m gonna lose my damn mind.” He slid his rifle into the boot, hung his canteen off the saddle and started pulling on his coat. “Pearson’s moanin’ about how we need food. I’m hungry, you’re hungry, Jack’s hungry, we’re all hungry. But I ain’t about to eat squirrel meat peppered with buckshot.” 

Abigail heaved an exasperated sigh, “At least take one of the men with you. Please?”

John scoffed and began to count out on his fingers, “Hosea’s all hunted out. The Reverend’s halfway inside a bottle. Dutch is waxing philosophical. Uncle has lumbago, whatever that is. Pearson is Pearson.” He ran out of fingers and resorted to subdued gestures. Drawing more attention to their conversation wasn’t needed. He certainly wasn’t in the mood for campfire ribbing about a “lover's spat.” 

“Strauss is out gathering debts. Bill’s in worse condition than I am. Javier is off with Trelawney. Charles, Micah and Lenny are who knows where.” John lifted his good leg into a stirrup and carefully mounted up. A sharp pain flared in his bad leg, enough to make him feel dizzy. He just managed to keep a straight face as he looked down at Abigail. He had a point to make, and he had to save face while doing it. 

“And Arthur is off in the mountains, apparently huntin’ a thousand pound bear. All by himself. Now tell me what man I’m gonna take with me?”

Abigail scowled up at him, but said nothing. 

“That’s what I thought,” John grunted, taking up the reins to steer Old Boy down the path. Nickering happily, the horse flicked his tail and tossed his head. “I’d ask you to come with me, but honestly, you’re not all that good with a gun. No offense intended.”

“Oh go to hell, John Marston,”

“I said ‘no offense intended’!”

“If you get hurt again, don’t come cryin’ to me, you damn fool,” Abigail called.

“John, hold up, son!” 

The tenseness in his jaw loosened at the sound of Hosea’s call. Giving pause, he turned in the saddle as the old man came over, digging into his inside coat pocket. He had to side-step Abigail as she turned on her heel and stormed back into camp. “Huh. Mad at you, is she?” 

John rolled his eyes, “What else is new?” 

“Well, what can you do,” Hosea chuckled, “Anyways, I picked this up in Valentine. Thought you might like to have it, son.” He held up a thin pamphlet. 

Curiously, John reached out to take it, “By ‘picked up’ you mean you stole it, right?” and then he slowly read the title. _Rip Van Winkle_ by Washington Irving.

He tittered, and flipped through the little book. It was an _actual_ story. A genuine, published piece of literature. Just like Hosea had said when they’d first come to Horseshoe Overlook. It was a bit late to understand why Arthur had called him “Rip Van Winkle” that day. But John wouldn’t mind finding out anyways. 

“Thanks.” He said, tucking it into his saddle pouch. 

Hosea nodded, “Be careful out there. Take your time.”

John nodded back, grateful that the old man hadn't asked to come with him. He needed some time to be alone. Time out from under the scrutiny of the camp. 

But John also found himself a little bothered that the old man hadn’t asked. He liked Hosea’s company, and it had been a long time since they’d gone hunting together. There were things that he could share with him that he couldn’t with anyone else.

“Come with me next time?” He asked, fiddling with the reins, “I promise we won’t go after no bears.”

The old man laughed good-naturedly and instantly, John felt better. “Sounds good. See you later, then.”

With higher spirits, John left camp and rode slowly down towards the river. Arthur had said that there was plenty of game in the area. Especially near the river. He’d start there. 

Old Boy nickered enthusiastically, obviously wanting to go faster. He hadn’t left Horseshoe Overlook since they’d arrived. The spring in his step was jostling John’s bad leg. But he didn’t have the heart to slow him. The horse was obviously having a good time getting the exercise.

They followed the soft road downward. A breeze brushed gently through the long grass. He thought he saw rabbits bounding through it. 

The damn place was so green, a vast improvement over the frozen cliffs of Colter. From his vantage point beneath a tree off the side of the road, he saw that the river was teeming with wildlife. Ducks swam about, fish snapped at flies, and a bounty of deer came in to drink. 

On account of being unable to swim, John wasn’t too eager to cross the river. He wasn’t sure how deep it was, and he didn’t want to get much closer for fear of scaring off the wild game. It wasn’t going to be easy, especially with the emptiness of his belly and his leg being the way it was. 

Old Boy pawed at the ground, and John rubbed at his neck, whispering, “Easy now, boy.”

Slowly, he eased his rifle from the boot and loaded the chamber. The click was luckily lost on the flowing river. Old Boy’s ears flicked, and he seemed to be preparing to spring into action. The scent of gunpowder often led to galloping. The large horse sure liked galloping. 

The wind was blowing towards them, up to the crags of Horseshoe Overlook. His prey couldn’t smell him. The sun shone warmly on John’s face, a welcome feeling. For a moment, he silently let his eyes wander over the small herd of white-tailed deer. 

They drank from the river peacefully. A faun or two stood out with their wobbly legs and sparse spots. John’s gaze settled on the biggest son of a bitch of the lot. It was just barely Spring, so his long, full antlers still had their velvet. In two places however, some of the fuzz hung off in bloody tendrils. 

John wondered if the buck may have recently been in a fight, or was rubbing trees early. He seemed to be the largest male of the group, his chest large and proud. There was some good meat on him. 

Nausea settled in his stomach as he lifted his rifle to take aim. His arms were a little shaky. If he missed, all the game within two miles would take off. If the shot wasn’t clean enough, he’d have to do some tracking.

Old Boy huffed, and grew still as the wind changed direction. The breeze flew across the river. The buck picked up his head and grunted, alerting the rest of the herd. They were on the move.

John pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, through the trees and cracked across the sky. The herd startled further, and the ducks scrambled to take flight.

The buck cried out, and bolted.

* * *

“Idiot.” 

The bleak start to his hunt held on as the day wore on. By the time it was about half past four in the afternoon, John was seated, exasperated, beneath a tree near the river. Feeling miserable. And still hungry. 

He was reading the little booklet Hosea had given him. After his failures, he was content to stay away from camp. If he went back with what he currently had, he’d more than likely face more comments. 

Couldn’t eat a handful of owl feathers. Probably could be sold for trinkets or something. And then there was a rabbit. Of course, the only reason he had it was because it had run across the path and Old Boy had stepped on its head…

It was decently sized at the very least. But it wouldn’t feed the whole camp.

At this point, John was at a bit of a loss. He’d been unable to find the herd from the morning, despite tracking every scattered hoofprint, scrape, and sign.

The area was rich with game and many of their paths crossed, making it hard to track one damn thing without losing yourself on another trail. He’d tried for some turkeys in the brush, no luck. Even a fox at some point. Nothing. And he didn’t know enough about mushrooms to know if some of the ones he had come across were safe to eat or not. 

Now he was reading by the river to delay. Sore, grouchy and with damp boots and socks.

At least he sort of knew why Arthur had called him Rip Van Winkle now. Of course, he couldn’t wrap his head around how a man could fall asleep for years and years. _Magic_ , he supposed, musing never to trust strange mountain men who played nine-pins and offered him food and drink. 

Aside from that, the story left him feeling grim. An idle man fucks off into the woods to escape his wife’s nagging, and just disappears for twenty years. A man who did nothing important, and didn’t believe in profitable labour. A fool who slept away the time and returned after all of his friends died. And then became a useless burden on the people around him. 

Did Arthur think of him that way? 

...Of course he did. But it hurt to be reminded. 

He hoped Arthur would come back soon. 

Sighing, he closed the pamphlet, and looked across the river. Some feller was riding along the road on a spotted horse, minding his own business. The sky was bright blue, a few fluffy clouds rolling over the trees. Horseshoe Overlook was up there. Their camp tucked in all neat and protected. There were a couple of small streams of campfire smoke that John could just see peeking through the leaves up there. 

It was a good area. John believed Arthur when he said that they would do well here. Of course, “home” never lasted very long. He wondered how long the Van der Linde gang would stay. What would be the cause of their moving on? Would they be chased out? Would they lose another? Who would it be if they did?

Reaching up, he rubbed at his eyes, not wanting to dwell further on it. He couldn’t bear the possibility.

Old Boy nickered quietly. John look over at the horse who was grazing quietly on the soft grass nearby. His ears were perked forward, looking downriver. John followed his gaze, and froze when he saw that they were no longer the only visitors to the riverside. 

He reached as slowly as he possibly could to the rifle that laid in the grass beside him. Less than thirty meters away, four adult does were creeping slowly to the river for a drink. The wind was blowing in John’s favor where he was sitting beneath the tree. They hadn’t noticed him. Maybe only saw his horse, and didn’t deem him a threat. 

John loaded the chamber of his rifle. The click was eaten by the sound of the river. Carefully, he raised the gun, and lined up his sights on the largest of the bunch. 

_“Breathe deep. Don’t rush it.”_

He remembered Arthur’s encouraging voice, rumbling quietly in his ear when they were in their teens. Teaching him the difference between hunting and a gunfight. 

Exhaling quietly, John squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed through the afternoon sky. 

The large doe buckled to the ground with a shriek as the other three fled. As John was springing up to his feet, she managed to get up and bound away. 

“Shit,” John gasped as he threw himself onto Old Boy, gritting his teeth at the throbbing in his leg. The horse took off after the doe which had disappeared into the trees. There was enough blood on the trail that led John to believe that his prey wouldn’t make it too far. And if the red bubbles were any indication, he might have hit the doe’s lung. 

_That’s a sorry death, bleeding into your own chest, drowning in your own blood._

He’d known people to die that way. In their line of work, it was a possibility. John didn’t want to think about it. Cursing, he lost the trail, and doubled back.

Despite knowing he’d gotten off a decent shot, it was still nearly an hour and a half before John finally found the doe. The damn thing had run itself to death. Almost a whole mile from the river too. 

_You run quick when you think you’re gonna die_ , John thought, thinking of how he’d bled during their flight from Blackwater. He’d never seen things go so south. And he’d been alone afterward. Stuck on a cliff for days in the freezing cold, hiding from wolves...hoping to be found by a friend. 

He shook his head to clear it, focusing back on the hunt.

Upon the doe’s death, it had fallen into a steep, and very small canyon that was easily missed. 

John only found it by accident. Old Boy had nearly fallen into it himself. One second they were moving along, John leaning to one side, eyeing the trail that he’d managed to pick up again. The next, stones were spilling into the crevice as Old Boy stepped on crumbling ground.

The horse squealed in shock, John pulled back on the reins. His heart jumped into his throat, “Whoa! Back, Boy, back!” Old Boy corrected himself at the last moment and maintained his balance. He backed nervously away, nickering. 

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” John hushed him, stroking his neck. Carefully, he dismounted. His leg burned something fierce when he set himself down. Gritting his teeth, John pressed his face to Old Boy’s neck, feeling faint. His belly was still empty, and he was feeling dizzy. The horse snorted, but didn’t step away. He was good like that. Big, strong and steady. 

“You know I love you, right?” John asked him, scratching the horse’s large flank. Old Boy nickered softly, turning to snuff at him. Leaning down, he checked the horse’s front legs for any injury. 

Everything seemed fine. 

He stroked the big face, kissing the large nose. 

Only then did John scrutinize the crack in the stone.

The blood trail ended here, leaving a red, bubbly smear on the edge of crevice. The stones and dry dust had been swept away on the edge as if something had slid through. The doe had to be down there. Heaving a sigh, John realized that he’d have to climb down into it to retrieve his prey.

There were already two carrion birds circling overhead. He’d have to move quickly before any other animals in the area grew interested. Animals of the predator variety. John wasn’t about to get chewed on by any wild dogs or coyotes. He’d had enough of canines for a long while. 

It wasn’t going to be easy. John didn’t exactly have all of his wind back. He came to the conclusion that perhaps it would have been easier if he’d at least asked Hosea to come along. Hell, even Abigail might have been useful. She was stronger than she looked. If he had the strength to lift the buck out of the crevice by himself, let alone climb down into it, he didn’t know.

Old Boy snuffed at John’s face, and nipped gently at the collar of his coat. He scratched just inside of his mount’s ears, and then pushed away to carefully look down into the crevice. It was maybe two meters deep. The edges were made up mostly of firm stones, crumbling slate, and moss. The bottom looked mostly like dried up mud, since crevices like this was where rainwater gathered. Sure enough, lying in the dry mud was his doe. 

The animal was in a heap, one of its legs clearly broken. Its eyes were glazed over. Blood covered its nose and its tongue lolled from its mouth. Grimacing, John stepped back from the edge and returned to Old Boy. He patted his curious nose and took the coil of rope from the saddle. 

“Got an idea. You ain’t gonna like it.”

Old Boy nickered, but stayed put when John told him to. Even as the rope was looped around the saddle horn to support John’s weight as he carefully lowered himself down into the crevice. The horse grunted, but righted himself, and braced.

It wasn’t an elegant descent. The little canyon in the stone was just wide enough for him to maneuver his way down. The sharp edges of stone bit his palms, and tugged at his clothing. 

Also, he would tell no one, but he fell the last few feet when his boot slipped on some crumbling slate. And son of a bitch, it hurt. John shouted out, and cursed as he landed in a heap similar to the doe.

The resulting pain in his leg and forearm kept him immobile for a long moment. 

John set his jaw staring at the blood trickling from his clenched fists. “Shit.” The damn slate had cut his palms pretty good. It stung fiercely. Shoulda put on some gloves.

Biting his lip, he opened up his fists. A groan left him at the sight of the gashes along his palms and fingers. He’d had worse, but he knew he’d catch hell over it from the folks in camp.

Of all people, it was he who would bag a decent kill but have to chase it down some stupid crack in the ground filled with sharp, crumbling slate. “Lucky, my ass,” John grunted, picking out the biggest pieces of slate caught under his skin.

Old Boy grunted in agitation from above. 

“S’alright, Boy! I’m okay!” He called, crawling over to the doe. He slipped out of the loop he’d tied around his waist and got it around the doe. Re-tying knots was a little difficult with his shaking, bloody hands, but he managed. 

Once he’d tied it off, he started climbing back up, using the loose end of the rope. Old Boy nickered but braced himself as John pulled himself back up. Growling in frustration, the man rested on the ground a moment, still picking slate from his palms. Old Boy snorted, and pressed his nostrils down to the side of John’s head. 

With a chuckle, John looked up at him. “I’ma sorry sight, huh?” Old Boy exhaled, sweeping John’s hair away from his face. Comforting, like a good friend. John felt like he hadn’t had one of those in a while.

He was a good horse.

“Alright, let’s get this asshole up here.” John sighed, climbing gingerly to his feet. Getting up into the saddle was a little more difficult this time. His leg was burning and his hands were bleeding. Red smears were left on everything he touched. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” John urged, turning Old Boy around. Soon enough the doe was pulled from the crevice, bloody, dusty and broken. 

It was no small effort for John to get his kill slung and secured over the back of his horse. He didn’t know exactly how long the doe had been dead, so it needed to be gutted and dressed as soon as possible. However, there were now four carrion birds circling and cawing overhead. 

John dug into his pocket and slipped out his watch. Blood smeared against the worn metal. Holding it gingerly between his fingers, he clicked the clasp open. A new hairline crack crossed its face to join the other. Probably from the fall. Luckily, it was still ticking, even after everything it had been through.

“Almost six. ‘Spose we should head back now. Abigail’s probably feelin’ mean as cat piss, eh?” He chuckled, closing the timepiece. He wiped the blood off of it on his trousers, and slid it back into his pocket. 

It took him two tries to get into the saddle again. “Ohhh, god. Fuck me,” he groaned, rubbing at his sore leg. “It is entirely possible,” John started, clicking his tongue to get Old Boy headed towards the trail, “that I have overdone it today.” The slate still caught in his torn up palms stung. Never in his life had he held the reins more daintily.

When they made it back to the river, John stopped Old Boy before crossing to rinse his hands. The cool water was a welcome relief. Whilst kneeling there, he washed the sweat and dirt from his face as well. It had been a warm, stressful day. But at least it wasn’t a total loss. He was bringing back venison and rabbit. At this point, he was so hungry that it hurt.

Maybe now Pearson and everyone else’ll shut the hell up for a while, John thought, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket. He dunked it into the cool water, tore it in half and carefully went about wrapping each piece around his hands. He had to tie it off with his teeth, but it would do. At least until he got some proper cloth bandages in camp.

Glancing over at the tree he’d been relaxing under earlier, he saw the copy of _Rip Van Winkle_ lying abandoned on the ground. Shaking off his hands, he went over and picked it up. Wiping off the dirt, he considered the little pamphlet. 

The urge to throw it in the river came over him. He wasn’t useless and he had no intention of being so. Damn, he could use a drink. Or something to eat, he thought as his stomach clenched painfully.

Heaving a sigh, he tucked the pamphlet into his back pocket. “Alright, let’s go,” John grunted, mounting up. Gritting his teeth, he urged Old Boy across the river, freshly soaking his boots. He let the horse have a decent run up the hill after milling aimlessly about all day. 

Old Boy tossed his head with a whinny as they approached the trail up to camp. 

“Who’s out there?!” called a voice. It was Bill. He could be the trigger-happy sort when on watch. John immediately called back that it was him and slowed his horse down. 

The horse snorted and trotted through the trees, bringing Bill into view. He was leaned heavily against a tree, smoking a cigarette. Blowing out a cloud, he laughed, “Look who’s back!” As John rode past, Bill whistled at the busted up carcasses, “I see yer hunt went well.” 

“Shut the hell up, Bill.” John growled, riding towards the edge of camp. 

“Just sayin’! Wonder if bear and venison taste good together?”

_Bear…? Arthur’s back._

Feeling suddenly nervous, John turned Old Boy over to the far left grazing area. He’d have to take care of the doe and the rabbit before he went looking for the man. If he was even still here that is. Arthur had taken care to be outside of camp as much as possible. Always managing to just avoid John each time he was about.

He had to curb his eagerness, knowing that it could lead towards trouble.

Apparently, trouble was out to find him. Just as John rode up amongst the horses, the man in question was stomping towards him. His brown coat was undone, and he looked a dirty and trailworn. But he was there! And he looked real pissed. 

The first words uttered weren’t friendly. “What’re you thinkin’ goin’ out by yourself like that? Yer barely on yer feet!” Arthur growled, grabbing Old Boy’s reins. The horse nickered in response, recognizing the man and sensing his agitation.

John scowled down at Arthur. The man whom he hadn’t seen in nearly a week. The man who had avoided him like a sickness and was now bossing him about. The damn hypocrite.

“Says the man who went after a thousand pound grizzly by himself!” He hissed back, throwing his leg over Old Boy to dismount without remembering to compensate for his exacerbated injuries and very empty stomach. 

When his boots hit the ground, his bad leg buckled as pain shot up and down the abused limb. Stumbling, he nearly fell. His teeth ground together in a muffled cry, black spots dancing in his eyes. 

Then he realized that Arthur had his arms around him. He’d kept him from falling over...and he wasn’t letting go.

The pair stood there, pressed together in the slowly fading light. Silence ensued. John’s heartbeat quickened, and he swallowed hard, getting his feet back under him. Nervously, he lifted his head and looked at Arthur. 

The blond’s eyes were a bit wider than usual. Blue. So very, very blue. Maybe a little green in some parts. Frozen. Unable to speak, and unable to move.

John watched him swallow, like he had a lump in his throat. But the arms around him still didn’t move. He thought he felt his fingers flex against his back. Not exactly squeezing...but certainly not pushing away.

Cautiously, John lifted a hand and grasped the hem of Arthur’s coat. The other was trapped in between them, pressed to his own chest. They were close. John could smell the stench of bear on Arthur. But he could also smell whiskey on Arthur’s breath. Maybe almost taste it. 

Whiskey often clouded a person’s judgment. It was whiskey that could encourage a man to fits of anger and violence, hazy joy, dark sadness, and...other things. Whiskey had brought them together before, and it had made John fall in more ways than one. The taste of it was a constant reminder to him. He wondered if it did the same to Arthur. 

God, he wanted to taste it. Their mingling breath warmed their lips. His nose softly nudged Arthur’s, their lips almost brushing against one another. So very close. 

A distant hoot of laughter within camp broke whatever had come over the two men. 

Arthur flinched back, setting his jaw. He pushed John away and clenched his fists at his sides, looking around. 

After an agonizingly long moment, he looked back at John and growled, “Look atcha, you can barely stand. Weak as a foal. Y’shouldn’t be goin’ out on yer own yet, ya damn fool.” 

John had to take a moment to compose himself, and hated that he had to do it under Arthur’s scrutiny. Hated that he felt miserable. That he felt angry. That he was now expected to pretend that that hadn’t just happened. 

Taking in a deep, calming breath, he turned away and started removing his saddle from Old Boy. 

“You hear me?” Arthur drawled, starting to sound annoyed.

“Yeah, I hear ya, Arthur,” John grunted, hanging the saddle over the makeshift fence line. It was then that Arthur caught one of his wrists. Pressing his lips together, he tried to tug away, not meeting Arthur’s gaze. But the large, tanned fingers held fast. 

_Arthur Morgan, you make this so hard..._

Then his hand was turned so the palm was facing upwards. 

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, “What’s with yer hands?”

“Nothin’. I’m fine.”

The damp handkerchief was pulled off. None too gently either. The torn, angry red skin was revealed. His grip on John’s wrist seemed to soften. “Oh for the love of...” came a strangely gentle murmur, “What have you done?” 

John tried to pull away again, “Ain’t bad. Ain’t even that deep.” Why was Arthur being so nosy? Why did he care? It had to be the whiskey. It was fit to give John whiplash. One moment, they couldn’t be in the same vicinity, the next they were in each others’ personal space.

John hated the pattern. The way it gave him hope, in one moment and then dashed it to pieces in the next. He wanted to be cross with Arthur, wanted to be able to ignore him. But John didn’t think he was capable of that. He cared too much.

Arthur let go of him that time, watching silently as the makeshift bandage was pulled back on. John avoided eye contact and went over to the deer slung over Old Boy’s rump to untie it. “Don’t just stand there, give the ‘foal’ a hand with this.” 

Surprisingly, Arthur helped. They laid the doe and the rabbit on the ground at a little campfire going just off to one side of camp. No one else seemed to have noticed them. The blond man shook his head, looking at the condition of the two dead animals. “What, did ya beat’em to death with a club?”

John slid a knife from his belt, “Goddamn deer fell down a _goddamn_ hole after I shot it. And the rabbit...well, Old Boy stepped on it.”

Arthur looked at him for a moment and then barked out a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and/or kudos!
> 
> Lovely to hear from you!


	3. Ain’t Nothin’ Wrong With You For Wantin’ Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shifting his gaze downward, John turned the tin over in his hands. “Does it still...hurt?” 
> 
> “It makes it easier,” Abigail relented quietly. “Makes it real good if you know what you’re doin’.” She added, studying him. She watched every miniscule twitch, every movement, putting things together in her head. Their line of work required them to be vigilant and observant. She was very good at it. It was often the difference between life and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post the next installment. But this was sitting in the back of my head...and I couldn’t justify it leading the next installment of We’re All Fools. 
> 
> In this chapter, I’m going hard at some of them sweet, sweet tropes. John pines, Abigail teaches him some things about his body...and Arthur? Well, he’s jealous.

“Ouch! For god’s sake, woman!” John hissed.

“I’m gettin’ tired of patchin’ you up, you big baby,” Abigail sighed, exasperated. 

Tugging his hand away, he clenched it into a fist. Whiskey dripped from between his fingers. It sure stung like a son of a bitch. “Well, I didn’t ask you to help me with this,” he grunted, shaking off his hand. He thought he’d been doing just fine. Scrubbed the open wounds with soap and hot water. Visited Strauss’ wagon all on his own, and liberated one of Uncle’s whiskey bottles. 

For astringent purposes only of course. 

But Abigail, who’d just returned from town, had hopped from the wagon and followed him into his tent. 

She set her gaze on him, and took back his hand to pour cool water over the torn flesh. It soothed the sting. John was already reaching for the little pot of salve. These days, general stores were mixing together and selling a variety of products that helped in wound care. A good amount of salves and tonics were German in origin, according to Strauss. John didn’t much care, he just recognized that this particular salve was the least foul in scent.

He applied some of the sticky substance to his palm, rubbing it in. 

Abigail reached forward, and gently began winding a bandage around his hand. She was careful. Focused. Nearly oblivious of John himself. He seldom knew what was going on in her head. It was more than obvious that he’d upset her today. Again. 

After all, no one liked being told they were a bad shot...or, John supposed, being made to worry about someone cared about. 

Once tying off the bandage, she punched him in the arm. 

“Ow! What was that for? Y’know, I’m startin’ to think you enjoy hurtin’ me.” John exclaimed, furrowing his brow and shaking out his arm. He looked at the cloth around his palm. He’d managed to hide the wounds from everybody when he and Arthur had delivered the gutted and dressed carcasses to Pearson. Blood could hide anything.

There weren’t going to be no hiding this. 

“We passed Arthur on the trail out of camp.” Abigail said quietly, taking his other hand. 

John said nothing, but couldn’t help letting out a pained noise through gritted teeth when she poured whiskey into the wounds. He knew perfectly well that Arthur had been sent down to the river with a bar of soap by Miss Grimshaw in the evening light. 

_“Arthur Morgan, you stink like bear. Bad enough I get to eat it, I don’t need to smell it!”_

Despite his misgivings about water and his fear of drowning, John almost wished he’d been sent with him. Just to be alone with him awhile longer. Have him all to himself. 

Glimpse the strong back littered with small scars...

“He told me that you hurt yourself. Asked me to look in on you.” 

Pausing, John looked at her in confusion. Watched as she gently rubbed salve into his palm. 

_Arthur asked you?_

“The two of you…?” Abigail asked, suddenly meeting his gaze. 

John blushed, knowing exactly what she was asking, “ _No._ I ain’t left camp and he ain’t been here. You know that!” 

She shrugged, “The way he talked, I dunno...seemed like something mighta happened.”

“Ain’t _nothin’_ happened, Abigail,” John growled, grabbing the bandage from her to wind it around his own hand. “Makin’ something outta nothin’.” He grunted, not quite sure if he was talking about her or about himself. 

“Then why’re you all grouchy all of a sudden?”

John sat back on his cot. “Abigail,” he warned, sounding pained. He went back to tying off the bandage. 

There was quiet. The voices in camp kept on. The odd cricket was heard. Darkness was coming and the lanterns would need to be lit soon. The smell of stew was starting to thicken the air. They wouldn’t starve to death just yet. 

“I brought you something back from town.” Abigail said. She wiped off her hands and reached into the pocket of her coat. 

John furrowed his brow when she placed a small tin pot into his hands, “What is,” he stopped talking, reading the label. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Well, I can show you if you’d like.”

Silence followed. 

Abigail stood up and brushed down her skirts. Looking at him knowingly. Given the way that he was turning red, she knew that the man was working things out.

“My, my. John Marston, it’s been a good while since I last seen you blush.”

“I ain’t blushin’,”

“Yes, you are,” she teased, moving into his personal space. He would deny it, but she saw him swallow, obviously flustered. Lifting a hand, she softly moved to cup his marred cheek. Breathing in sharply, he leaned away from her touch, frowning. Shushing him gently, she apologized and settled her hand on his shoulder instead. 

Shifting his gaze downward, he turned the tin over in his hands. “Does it still...hurt?” 

“It makes it easier,” Abigail relented quietly. “Makes it real good if you know what you’re doin’.” She added, studying him. She watched every miniscule twitch, every movement, putting things together in her head. Their line of work required them to be vigilant and observant. She was very good at it. It was often the difference between life and death.

John Marston wasn’t normally afraid of getting hurt. Abigail reasoned that it had to be that the act he remembered not only hurt, but it had to have made him feel vulnerable. Overwhelmed. Perhaps even afraid. Abigail worried for a moment that Arthur had forced himself on John...but he wasn’t that kind of man. If anything, John had begged him into it. And then they’d both gotten in over their heads.

“I can teach you how to do it,” she murmured, trailing her fingertips up the man’s throat as he swallowed again. Softly, her nails ran carefully under his jaw and tilted his chin up. Those big brown eyes looked dazed, hungry...and ashamed. 

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you for wantin’ him, John Marston,” she said, leaning down to kiss him. Gentle hands slipped the tin of vaseline from his. The cot creaked quietly under them.

* * *

Arthur sat at the fire, eating stew next to Dutch and Hosea. The others were further along in their meal, talking amongst themselves, laughing. The two older men were having their own low conversation.

“They been in there a while. ‘Spose them married folk are at it again?” Dutch chuckled, chewing hard on a hunk of bear meat. 

Hosea remarked, digging around in his bowl with his spoon, “Yup. I think they had themselves a fight this mornin’.” 

“Ah, youth.” 

Arthur said nothing. Kept his eyes down. He’d gone and washed up as best he could at the river. At least from the waist up. He’d save his lower bits for when it was either his turn for some hot water in camp, or when he was out somewhere on his own. He’d come back to change his clothes at his tent.

And overheard them. 

They weren’t exactly being loud. But John’s tent was right next to his. There was a hushed murmur and a muffled sound that might not mean anything to anyone else. But Arthur knew...intimately...what John sounded like. 

His head had very suddenly filled itself with all sorts of thoughts, questions, worries, and feelings. One of those low feelings was a spark of jealousy. 

At one point, Arthur had had the inclination to marry Abigail. If John’s fathering skills were anything to go by, he thought it might have been better for her and for Jack. He liked her well enough. Bit cold sometimes, but he never expected a woman, especially a woman in their line of work to be soft and demure. A woman had the right to have a personality just like any man. Abigail was a strong woman. A good woman. Even without John’s support, even without the support of the rest of camp, she was raising her little boy just fine. 

But Arthur’s jealousy wasn’t rooted in not having Abigail, no. But...what kind of a man was jealous of another man’s wife? 

It left him nauseous and confused. Left him angry with himself, ashamed of himself. Left him with more questions. And it was getting more and more difficult to suppress them. Harder and harder to pretend like nothing happened. Harder to fight his temptations.

When he’d returned from the bear hunt, John hadn’t been in camp. And according to Bill, he’d been gone all day. All sorts of conclusions were jumped to. Night was approaching. What if he’d fallen off his horse? What if he’d hurt himself? What if he’d left again and didn’t come back this time?

The only thing that had kept Arthur from throwing his saddle back on Harold was Hosea and his bottle of whiskey. 

_“Hang on, son. He’s had a tough time. Going stir crazy being stuck in camp. He’s just trying to get up on his own two feet again. Just come have a drink.”_

Have a drink he did. Maybe more than he should have. Hadn’t really eaten since that rabbit he’d hunted. He wasn’t much at cooking and eating could be a chore. Especially when you had a lot of mouths to feed. So the whiskey had to have some effect on him. It had to explain why he’d done what he’d done. Why he hadn’t been able to stop himself earlier. 

He’d meant to keep a distance between them. Keep pretending. If they could keep pretending, maybe it would become the truth. But when he’d spotted John sneaking back into camp...he’d just reacted. Berated him, like he were a child again. It was easy. And when John had fallen from his horse, Arthur caught him. Held onto him. Breathed in the dirt from the trail. The scent of sweat. And suddenly had the startling inclination to kiss him...

It was frightening how much he wanted to. If he’d just had the nerve…

Arthur tipped the last of the stew down his throat and put the bowl down between his feet to hide how he was shaking. Wiping his mouth, he swallowed hard, trying to rid himself of the lump forming in his throat.

Things like that could get a man killed. His daddy had made sure he’d known that. Maybe the old drunk had seen something perverse in Arthur back then. Knew something weren’t right about him. 

And then it had spread to John. Impressionable little Johnny Marston. Just a kid amongst outlaws trying to prove himself. And Arthur had hurt him. 

_“Yer bleedin’.”_

He shook his head hard and rubbed at his face. He couldn’t do that again. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. 

“You alright, Arthur?” 

Arthur stirred from his brooding and found Hosea looking at him. Dutch glanced up from his stew and chuckled, “He’s had a long day of it. Huntin’ legends and takin’ care of his people. You should go get some rest, Arthur,” the older man heartily slapped his shoulder, “You’ve earned it.” 

Saving face, Arthur smiled, “Thanks, Dutch. But I think I'll sit here a while longer. Y’know, give the married folk a little...privacy.” 

Dutch laughed. 

Arthur didn’t see the pensive look Hosea directed towards him. He only stared into the fire and took a long swig from the next bottle of whiskey he was offered.

* * *

Biting down on the back of his hand, air whooshed from John’s lungs. Too much. Just enough. It hadn’t hurt exactly. It was more so uncomfortable perhaps. At least at first. At times there was a little burn, but it quickly became part of it. Something that fit right in with the clenching of his muscles, the heat in his belly, and the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes.

At first it had felt like an eternity. Awkward and strange. Him lying there with his shirt rucked up to his nipples, trousers and long pants pulled off while Abigail knelt between his legs, buttons and skirts undone. Slicking up her fingers and circling his hole. And very suddenly, it all was happening so fast. Fast enough that his words and worries left him. No room for them when he was so full of physical feelings. 

He let out a soft moan as Abigail nipped and sucked at a place just below his chest, right between his ribs. “When you want to find it, press up,” she breathed, pushing her fingers up against that spot in him again. 

John arched up, gasping as his vision grew blurry. Overwhelming. Wonderful. 

“If his cock curves up, it’s easier on your back. If it curves down, it’s best on your belly. It ain't elegant, but you seem to be enjoyin’ it just fine,” she murmured, stroking her husband’s cock a little faster. A muffled whimper was the result. 

“So which is it when it comes to Arthur Morgan?” She breathed, feeling bold, and genuinely interested as she pressed up against his sweet spot again.

When she’d first come to join the gang, she’d been with nearly every man in camp. Any way to be accepted, and the money was good. Most of them weren’t too bad neither. But Arthur wouldn’t have her, turned her down with a soft smile. She remembered feeling almost insulted at the time. But Arthur was so kind and gentle to her and to Jack. And he sure was a fine looking man. 

Karen claimed to the women that she’d once, completely by accident, spotted him bathing in a river. If she could be believed, he’d been hard as a rock and hung like a horse too...

_Who wouldn’t be a little curious?_

“ _Abigail_ ,” he grunted, looking up her, eyes wide and shocked. 

She believed that she had seen John at his best and at his worst. Fresh off a successful job, grinning, pleased with himself. Pleased that Arthur was pleased with him. Fevered, miserable and close to dying in the mountains. Upset that Arthur was upset with him.

John Marston was many things, Abigail had no delusions about that. He was in the profession of lying, cheating and stealing. He had the ability to be a downright annoying, rotten man. He was an outlaw. Quick with his gun, and a good man to have on a bad job. He drank for fun and he drank heavily when his moods got dark. But he never raised his hand to her or to Jack. 

They argued like cats and dogs at times, but he never, _ever_ hit her. He’d left her once. Sometimes he ignored her. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave her alone. Held onto her a little too tight when the camp was partying at times, but he never took advantage of her.

He always let go when she told him to. If she ever told him no when it came to kissing or sex, he’d immediately stop. He didn’t often listen to her on a day to day basis. But when it came to sex, he’d listen. He let her teach him things. Learn eagerly when she told him how she wanted it. While they didn’t have too much in the way of a proper domestic relationship, they always had this. Sex was where they could really relate to one another, where they got along best. 

She’d certainly known worse men. 

“Well?” She prompted, slowing down her stroking of his cock. 

A frustrated sound left him and he reached down to cover her hand with his. She all but stopped then. There was a gutted whine and then a frantic whisper, “Up. Up. It curves up.” She resumed her stroking, sliding her fingers in and out of him a little harder, “Hm, tell me more.”

“Fuck. Y’wouldn’t think it when he’s soft. But when, _Jesus!_ ”

“Go on,” 

“W-when he’s hard, he’s...big.”

“Is he?” _Karen wasn’t fibbing._

“Yes,” 

“Mm, imagine him then, touching you like this,”

A shudder built up in John’s chest, his legs twitching against her. His breath was growing shorter and shorter. Abigail knew he wasn’t going to last any longer. Her ministrations grew ever relentless. 

“Think of him. Gettin’ ready to make love to ya. To fuck you.” 

He stuffed his already abused knuckles into his mouth, hips jerking up as he bit down on a long groan. She worked his cock a little harder, pressing mercilessly up against his sweet spot, determined to prolong his already intensified orgasm.

He spilled over her hand, arching up off of the cot. Muffled delirious sounds left him and he wrapped a hand around her wrist. “Abigail, please, please I can’t!” He choked. 

Taking pity on him, she slowed to a stop and very gently eased her fingers out of her husband. The poor thing was an absolute wreck. His chest was red and heaving as he panted. Spend shined in a messy trail up from his belly all the way to his collarbone. She hadn’t seen the man come off like that in a very long time. 

Leaning down, she kissed him, quieting his gasping. He kissed her back. Slow. Reverently. Like he was close to sleep. 

She, however, wasn't done with him. 

“Don’t doze off just yet, John Marston” she murmured, pulling away to climb up his body. 

His hands came up to rest on her naked thighs. His eyes fluttered feverishly, pulling her closer. Nearly pulling her off balance. He leaned up and buried his face in between her legs. 

Abigail might be married to him, but she shared him. She knew from the start that she would have to. Share him with the gang and camp responsibilities. Share him with Dutch and Hosea. Share him with guns and alcohol. Share him with his damn horse. Share him with Arthur Morgan who he went on jobs with. Who he bickered and fought with like two boys grown up together. 

“You ever use your mouth on him, John?” She whispered, egging him on. He groaned against her, licking between her folds, rubbing his tongue over her clit.

She just hadn’t thought that she’d share John with Arthur sexually. At least she hadn’t known until Blackwater. She still couldn’t believe how she’d not seen it before. The two weren’t entirely subtle, but she supposed one had to know what to look for. Everything about their relationship, the good and the bad had suddenly made sense. 

He slid a finger gently up inside her, licking and softly sucking. 

“Mmh, you’ve got a mouth surely made for it,”

She’d been a little jealous at first. Of which man, she wasn’t sure. Occasionally she’d wonder what her life might have been like if she’d married Arthur. He was a good man. Violent at times, but what outlaw wasn’t? Besides, he never really hit anyone who didn’t need it. Handsome. Strong. And respectful of those who might not merit much respect in society. She couldn’t blame John for having the man in his heart. 

Abigail just hoped that Arthur would let him back into his. If she was right, the last time he’d hurt him, John had left...she didn’t believe that she nor Arthur could bear that again. 

Tenderly, she slid her nails back through his hair. He hummed, shivering against her. “Want me to talk to him?” 

Silence.

Abigail bit her tongue, not sure why she’d blurted it out like that. Dark brown eyes stared up at her, leaning back. Appalled. Then angry. 

And then only afraid. 

“Please don’t. If he thinks I told you, if someone else knows...I don’t think he’d ever speak to me again.” Came the hoarse, worried murmur. 

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m sorry. I won’t. Not unless you ask me to,” she replied. Instinctively, she shifted back, moving to get off of him.

Firm hands kept her where she was, straddling him. Towering over him where he laid in the cot. He swallowed hard, stroking her thighs, “Thank you,” and then he went back to it. 

 

Threading her fingers through his hair, Abigail swallowed hard. 

_I’ll help you, John..._

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and/or kudos! Lovely to hear from you!
> 
> Also, please no spoilers in the comments for the enjoyment of everyone.
> 
> Hugs for Harold!


End file.
